The Last Two
by RavieSnake
Summary: An elderly man considers his existence and the idea that love knows no age. Epilogue compliant. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters from it. I make no money from the writing/publishing of this story.**

 **. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .**

I don't know why I'm still alive.

I've lived long enough. Much more than a century and a quarter now.

What possible purpose could there be for my still being on this earth?

My parents have been dead for decades. My wife as well. My son passed ten Easters ago. His son and grandsons and great-grandsons never visit me. I don't blame them. I'd avoid this place too if I could.

But I'll never leave this place. Not until I die...and even then I might stick around to haunt it just to be able to tell them all to fuck off.

They don't care about me. They don't care about us…us old, 'senile' folk. The Healers walk by and avert their eyes and flip through parchments and find spots on the wall very interesting when you look at them.

They can't be bothered. Important things to do. No time for the ancient man with the strange, faded tattoo rotting away in his wheelchair.

 _He can't talk anyway,_ they justify to themselves. _He can't move. He can't understand when we talk about him in front of him like an animal at the fucking zoo._

It's true that my voice can no longer form words. It's true my limbs have failed me. But my brain is still here. I'm still here. Sometimes the frustration gets so bad it causes me physical pain. All I want to do is scream.

I'M STILL IN HERE! I STILL HEAR YOU! I STILL UNDERSTAND YOU! I STILL FEEL! I'M STILL ALIVE!

But all I can do is sit. And stare. And feel. And keep living.

A Healer stoops down before me and uncorks a potion vial. She won't tell me what it is or why she's giving it to me. She just pours it hastily down my throat and narrows her eyes at me to make sure I swallow. She flashes an obligatory smile as she pats my hand like a child.

 _"Good job, sweetie. You only dribbled a few drops that time"._

She walks away and I can feel the spilled potion seeping through my shirt to my chest. It'll be there all day. They can't be fussed to change me or spell it clean.

 _No one will notice anyway,_ one'll whisper to another. _His family never visits._

I close my eyes, the only thing I can still do for myself, and try to bury the indignity. I wish I would just die already. I wish I could...

A hand touches mine. I look down and if I could smile I would.

It's _her_ hand.

It's tissue-soft skin is just as wrinkled and liver spotted as my own, but it's beautiful. Her great-granddaughter must have painted her nails again. They're cherry red.

Her delicate fingers squeeze mine and I shift my eyes up her arm to her face. She can't talk anymore either, but she can hum. She hums whenever she's near me. The Healers think she's dotty. I know better.

She's still in there too.

She hums me a song as she rubs my hand and sits in her own wheelchair parked next to mine.

I gaze at her as her head sways in time with her humming. Her curls still have a little bounce even if they've lost their chestnut color. Our hair might've even matched now...if I had any left.

Her eyes meet mine and my longing for death retreats. I try to smile at her, and I know my mouth stays lax, but she can tell. She sees it in my eyes. She's the only one that does. She's the only one that knows I'm still in here. She's the only one that cares.

I love her.

It took me more than a century to admit it, but I do. I've loved her most of my life. But our lives were never compatible. We were never meant to be. We were on different sides.

But there are no more sides now.

No one remembers the war anymore. Not really. They only know that it happened. That a man named Harry Potter killed a dark wizard named Voldemort and now every year Wizarding Britain has a bank holiday on May 2nd to commemorate.

Sure the history books say more than that, but it's only historians and school children reading it. And the school children only read it to write about it in an essay they've been assigned and will forget about it the moment they hand it in.

It's been over a hundred years. No one _really_ remembers. Not like she and I do.

We are the last of our generation. Everyone else is gone. Why she and I have lived so long I don't know.

Perhaps Fate wanted to give us what it denied us for so long… a time to be together.

But not even that is sacred here.

A Healer finally stops and grins down at us. My love stops humming.

 _"These two are so cute,"_ she says waving at two other Healers to join her at her side.

 _"I wonder what they were like…when they were with it."_

 _"Poetic, though isn't it, that the last surviving Death Eater would spend his final days with the last surviving war veteran?"_

 _"Do you suppose they knew each other back in the day?"_

 _"I don't know, but it's so adorable how she holds his hand like that. You'd think they were in love."_

 _"I do rather hope they pass at the same time. It'd be so sad to see one without the other."_

The Healers all nod at that.

My dearest squeezes my hand three times and restarts her humming as the women walk away with important things to do and we're forgotten again. I meet her gaze again and blink three times back.

She smiles widely as she hums and lets her eyes roam again about the hallway that we're sitting in. I close my eyes and bask in the comfort of the heat from her hand on mine and the beautiful tone of the humming from her lips.

And I realize in this moment that I, Draco Malfoy, have figured out the answer to my own question.

My purpose for still being here is to be here with her. I'm living for her.

For Hermione Granger. My love.

To the Healers we are simply bodies in the geriatric ward. Things to be kept living. Not people meant to live.

But she and I know better. We know the value of life.

And _we_ still have value…even if only to each other.

And those Healers needn't fret.

Soulmates always pass on together.


End file.
